Page 153 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The floor I tracked with bloody shoes.

All clean.

I turn in a slow circle. No lens. No red lights. No suspicious black dots.

He’s thorough.

Dexter trots into the living room and hops onto the couch, curling up like this is just another work night. Maybe for him it is. Maybe for me too.

I pick up the wine and hold it like a church offering.

I keep waiting.

A knock at the door.

A scream from the hallway.

An eyeball to roll out from under the couch and wink likeHey girl, miss me?

But nothing does.

Eventually I ease open the side door, expecting to find either a body or a police squad.

Instead, I find takeout.

No blood. No body.

No Dexter gnawing on a severed toe.

It’s just food. My favorite and still hot.

The absence of carnage feels almost worse. Like the crime was too neatly erased and I’m the only one who remembers. My mind skitters—until the scent hits me.

Warm spices. Garlic. That buttery perfume of toasted naan.

Something inside me crumples.

I close the door, lock it, and then relock it. Engage the security system for the illusion of safety—because that’s what we’re working with now.

I open the container and dive in.

Not like someone picking at dinner in the aftermath of trauma.

Like someone starving.

I tear into it like a woman trying to fill the crater where her sanity used to be. Tandoori chicken. Basmati rice. Both samosas. Half the naan. The sauces. I drink the wine, refill the glass, and pour a third without thinking.

By the time I climb the stairs, my stomach is full and my head fuzzy, but none of it dulls the buzzing tension under my skin.

Dexter’s already curled up in his bed like he didn’t just watch his human commit murder. He lifts his head, blinks at me, then returns to chewing like he’s showing that bone who’s boss.

Cozy under my comforter, I scroll the news with one hand, wine in the other, searching for proof the universe is catching up to what I did.

But there’s nothing.

No reports. No sirens. No headlines about mystery bodies or vigilante justice.

I lie down slowly, like I’m afraid I might break the moment. My body sinks into the mattress, limbs weighted by exhaustion and wine, but my brain refuses to shut off.

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